My Life, by Leon Trotsky

Chapter 26

From July to October

On June 4, a declaration that I had submitted concerning Kerensky’s preparation for an offensive at
the front was read by the Bolshevik faction at the congress of the Soviets. We had pointed out that the offensive was
an adventure that threatened the very existence of the army. But the Provisional government was growing intoxicated
with its own speechifying. The ministers thought of the masses of soldiers, stirred to their very depths by the
revolution, as so much soft clay to be moulded as they pleased. Kerensky toured the front, adjured and threatened the
troops, kneeled, kissed the earth — in a word, downed it in every possible way, while he failed to answer any of the
questions tormenting the soldiers. He had deceived himself by his cheap effects, and, assured of the support of the
congress of the Soviets, ordered the offensive. When the calamity that the Bolsheviks had warned against came, the
Bolsheviks were made the scapegoats. They were hounded furiously. The reaction, which the Kadet party was shielding,
pressed in from all sides, demanding our heads.

The faith of the masses in the Provisional government was hopelessly undermined. At this second stage of the
revolution, Petrograd was again too far in the van. In the July days, this vanguard came to an open clash with
Kerensky’s government. It was not yet an uprising, but only a reconnaissance that went deep. But it had already become
obvious in the July encounter that Kerensky had no “democratic” army behind him; that the forces supporting him against
us were those of a counter-revolution.

During the session in the Taurid Palace on July 3, I learned of the demonstration of the machine-gun regiment and
its appeal to other troops and to factory-workers. The news came as a surprise to me. The demonstration had been
spontaneous, at the initiative of the masses, but next day it went farther, now with the participation of our party.
The Taurid Palace was overrun by the people. They had only one slogan: “Power to the Soviets.”

In front of the palace, a suspicious-booking group of men who had kept aloof from the crowd seized the minister of
agriculture, Chernov, and put him in an automobile. The crowd watched indifferently; at any rate, their sympathy was
not with him. The news of Chernov’s seizure and of the danger that threatened him reached the palace. The Populists
decided to use machine-gun armored cars to rescue their leader. The decline of their popularity was making them
nervous; they wanted to show a firm hand. I decided to try to go with Chernov in the automobile away from the crowd, in
order that I might release him afterward. But a Bolshevik, Raskolnikov, a lieutenant in the Baltic navy, who had
brought the Kronstadt sailors to the demonstration, excitedly insisted on releasing Chernov at once, to prevent people
from saying that he had been arrested by the Kronstadt men. I decided to try to carry out Raskolnikov’s wish. I will
let him speak for himself.

“It is difficult to say how long the turbulence of the masses would have continued,” the impulsive
lieutenant says in his memoirs, “but for the intervention of Comrade Trotsky. He jumped on the front of the automobile,
and with an energetic wave of his hand, like a man who was tired of waiting, gave the signal for silence. Instantly,
everything calmed down, and there was dead quiet. In a loud, clear and ringing voice, Lev Davydovich made a short
speech, ending with ‘those in favor of violence to Chernov raise their hands!’ Nobody even opened his mouth,” continues
Raskolnikov; “no one uttered a word of protest. ‘Citizen Chernov, you are free,’ Trotsky said, as he turned around
solemnly to the minister of agriculture and with a wave of his hand, invited him to leave the automobile. Chernov was
half-dead and half-alive. I helped him to get out of the automobile, and with an exhausted, expressionless look and a
hesitating, unsteady walk, he went up the steps and disappeared into the vestibule of the palace. Satisfied with his
victory, Lev Davydovich walked away with him.”

If one discounts the unnecessarily pathetic tone, the scene is described correctly. It did not keep the hostile
press from asserting that I had Chernov seized to have him lynched. Chernov shyly kept silent; how could a “People’s”
minister confess his indebtedness not to his own popularity, but to the intervention of a Bolshevik for the safety of
his head?

Delegation after delegation demanded, in the name of the demonstrants, that the Executive Committee take the power.
Chiedze, Tzereteli, Dan, and Gotz were sitting in the presidium like statues. They did not answer the delegations, and
looked blankly off into space or exchanged perturbed and cryptic glances. Bolsheviks spoke one after another in support
of the delegations of workers and soldiers. The members of the presidium were silent. They were waiting — but for what?
Hours passed in this way. Then, in the middle of the night, the halls of the palace resounded suddenly with the
triumphant blare of trumpets. The members of the presidium came to life as if they had been touched by an electric
current. Some one solemnly reported that the Volyn regiment had arrived from the front to put itself of the disposal of
the Central Executive Committee. In all of the Petrograd garrison, the “democracy” had not had a single unit that it
could rely on. And so it had had to wait until an armed force could come from the front.

Now the whole setting changed immediately. The delegations were driven out; Bolsheviks were not allowed to speak.
The leaders of the democracy were wreaking on us their vengeance for the fear that the masses had made them suffer.
Speeches from the platform of the Executive Committee told of an armed mutiny suppressed by the loyal troops of the
revolution. The Bolsheviks were declared a counter-revolutionary party. The arrival of that one Volyn regiment had done
all this. Three and a half months later, the same regiment co-operated wholeheartedly in the overthrow of Kerensky’s
government.

On the morning of the fifth I met Lenin. The offensive by the masses had been beaten off. “Now they will shoot us
down, one by one,” said Lenin. “This is the right time for them.” But he overestimated the opponent — not his venom,
but his courage and ability to act. They did not shoot us down one by one, although they were not far from it.
Bolsheviks were being beaten down in the streets and killed. Military students sacked the Kseshinskaya palace and the
printing-works of the Pravda. The whole street in front of the works was littered with manuscripts, and among
those destroyed was my pamphlet To the Slanderers. The deep reconnaissance of July had been transformed into a
one-sided battle. The enemy were easily victorious, because we did not fight. The party was paying dearly for it. Lenin
and Zinoviev were in hiding. General arrests, followed by beatings, were the order of the day. Cossacks and military
students confiscated the money of those arrested, on the ground that it was “German money.” Many of our sympathizers
and half-friends turned their backs on us. In the Taurid Palace, we were proclaimed counter-revolutionists and were
actually put outside the law.

The situation in the ruling circles of the party was bad. Lenin was away; Kamenev’s wing was raising its head. Many
— and these included Stalin — simply let events take their own course, so that they might show their wisdom the day
after. The Bolshevik faction in the Central Executive Committee felt orphaned in the Taurid Palace. It sent a
delegation to ask me if I would speak to them about the situation, although I was not yet a member of the party; my
formal joining had been delayed until the party congress, soon to meet. I agreed readily, of course. My talk with the
Bolshevik faction established moral bonds of the sort that are forged only under the enemy’s heaviest blows. I said
then that after this crisis we were to expect a rapid up swing; that the masses would become twice as strongly attached
to us when they had verified the truth of our declaration by facts; that it was necessary to keep a strict watch on
every revolutionary, for at such moments men are weighed on scales that do not err. Even now I recall with pleasure the
warmth and gratitude that the members showed me when I left them. “Lenin is away,” Muralov said, “and of the others,
only Trotsky has kept his head.”

If I had been writing these memoirs under different circumstances — although in other circumstances I should hardly
have been writing them at all — I should have hesitated to include much of what I say in these pages. But now I cannot
forget that widely organized lying about the past which is one of the chief activities of the epigones. My friends are
in prison or in exile. I am obliged to speak of myself in a way that I should never have done under other conditions.
For me, it is a question not merely of historical truth but also of a political struggle that is still going on.

My unbroken fighting friendship as well as my political friendship with Muralov began then. I must say at least a
few words about the man. Muralov is an old Bolshevik who went through the revolution of 1905 in Moscow. In Serpukhov,
in 1906, he was caught in the pogrom of the Black Hundred — carried out, as usual, under the protection of the police.
Muralov is a magnificent giant, as fearless as he is kind. With a few others, he found himself in a ring of enemies who
had surrounded the building of the Zemstvo administration. Muralov came out of the building with a revolver in his hand
and walked evenly toward the crowd. It moved back a little. But the shock company of the Black Hundred blocked his
path, and the cabmen began to howl taunts at him. “Clear a way,” ordered the giant without slackening his advance, as
he raised the hand holding the revolver. Several men pounced on him. He shot one of them down and wounded another. The
crowd drew back again. With the same even step, cutting his way through the crowd like an ice-breaker, Muralov walked
on and on toward Moscow.

His subsequent trial lasted for two years, and, in spite of the frenzy of the reaction that swept over the country,
he was acquitted. An agricultural expert by training, a soldier in an aut mobile detachment during the imperialist war,
a leader of the October fighting in Moscow, Muralov became the first commander of the Moscow military region after the
victory. He was a fearless marshal of the revolutionary war, always steady, simple, and unaffected. In his campaigning
he was a tireless living example; he gave agricultural advice, mowed grain, and in his free moments gave medical
treatment to both men and cows. In the most difficult situations he radiated calm, warmth, and confidence. After the
close of the war, Muralov and I always tried to spend our free days together. We were united too by our love of
hunting. We scoured North and South for bears and wolves, or for pheasants and bustards. At present, Muralov is hunting
in Siberia as an exiled oppositionist.

In the July days of 1917, Muralov held his head up, as usual, and encouraged many others. In those days, we all
needed a lot of self-control to stride along the corridors and halls of the Taurid Palace without bowing our heads, as
we ran the gauntlet of furious glances, venomous whispers, grinding of teeth, and a demonstrative elbowing that seemed
to say: “Look! Look!” There is no fury greater than that of a vain and pampered “revolutionary” philistine when he
begins to perceive that the revolution which has suddenly lifted him to the top is about to threaten his temporary
splendor.

The route to the canteen of the Executive Committee was a little Golgotha in those days. Tea was dispensed there,
and sandwiches of black bread and cheese or red caviar; the latter was plentiful in the Smolny and later in the
Kremlin. For dinner, the fare was a vegetable soup with a chunk of meat. The canteen was in charge of a soldier named
Grafov. When the baiting of the Bolsheviks was at its worst, when Lenin was declared a German spy and had to hide in a
hut, I noticed that Grafov would slip me a hotter glass of tea, or a sandwich better than the rest, trying meanwhile
not to look at me. He obviously sympathized with the Bolsheviks but had to keep it from his superiors. I began to look
about me more attentively. Grafov was not the only one: the whole lower staff of the Smolny — porters, messengers,
watchmen — were unmistakably with the Bolsheviks. Then I felt that our cause was half won. But so far, only half.

The press was conducting an exceptionally venomous and dishonest campaign against the Bolsheviks, a campaign
surpassed in this respect only by Stalin’s campaign against the opposition a few years later. In July, Lunacharsky made
a few equivocal statements which the press naturally interpreted as a renunciation of Bolshevism. Some papers
attributed similar statements to me. On July 10, I addressed a letter to the Provisional government in which I stated
my complete agreement with Lenin and which I ended as follows: “You can have no grounds for exempting me from the
action of the decree by virtue of which Lenin, Zinoviev and Kamenev are subject to arrest; you can have no grounds for
doubting that I am as irreconcilably opposed to the general policy of the Provisional government as my above-mentioned
comrades.” Messrs. the ministers drew the due conclusion from this letter, and arrested me as a German agent.

In May, when Tzereteli was hounding the sailors and disarming the machine-gun companies, I warned him that the day
was probably not far distant when he would have to seek help from the sailors against some general who would be soaping
the hangman’s rope for the revolution. In August, such a general made his appearance in the person of Kornilov.
Tzereteli called for the help of the Kronstadt bluejackets; they did not refuse it. The cruiser Aurora entered
the waters of the Neva. I was already in the Kresty prison when I saw this quick fulfilment of my prophecy. The sailors
from the Aurora sent a special delegation to the prison to ask my advice: should they defend the Winter Palace
or take it by assault? I advised them to put off the squaring of their account with Kerensky until they had finished
Kornilov. “What’s ours will not escape us.”

“It won’t?”

“It will not.”

While I was in prison, my wife and boys called to see me. The boys had by that time acquired some political
experience of their own. They were spending the summer in the country house of the family of a retired colonel.
Visitors often came there, mostly officers, and as they helped themselves to vodka they would rail at the Bolsheviks.
In the July days this railing reached its climax. (Some of these officers left soon after that for the South, where the
future “White” forces were being gathered.) When, in the course of a meal, a certain young patriot called Lenin and
Trotsky German spies, my older boy dashed at him with a chair and the younger one with a table-knife. The grown-ups
separated them, and the boys, sobbing hysterically, locked themselves in their room. They were secretly planning to
make their way on foot to Petrograd to find out what was happening to the Bolsheviks there, but fortunately their
mother came, pacified them, and took them away. But in the city things seemed hardly better. The newspapers were
denouncing the Bolsheviks, their father was in prison — the revolution was definitely disappointing. But that did not
prevent them from delightedly watching my wife furtively slip me a pen-knife through the grating in the prison
reception-room. I continued to console them by saying that the real revolution was still to come.

My daughters were being drawn more actively into political life. They attended the meetings in the Modern Circus and
took part in demonstrations. During the July days, they were both shaken up in a mob, one of them lost her glasses,
both lost their hats, and both were afraid that they would lose the father who had just reappeared on their
horizon.

During the days of Kornilov’s advance on Petrograd, the prison regime was hanging by a thread. Everybody realized
that if Kornilov entered the city he would immediately slaughter all the Bolsheviks arrested by Kerensky. The Central
Executive Committee was afraid too that the prisons might be raided by the White-guard elements in the capital. A large
detachment of troops was detailed to guard the Kresty. Of course it proved to be not “democratic” but Bolshevik, and
ready to release us at any moment. But an act like that would have been the signal for an immediate uprising, and the
time for that had not yet come. Meanwhile, the government itself began to release us, for the same reason that it had
called in the Bolshevik sailors to guard the Winter Palace. I went straight from the Kresty to the newly organized
committee for the defense of the revolution, where I sat with the same gentlemen who had put me in prison as an agent
of the Hohenzollerns, and who had not yet withdrawn the accusation against me. I must candidly confess that the
Populists and Mensheviks by their very appearance made one wish that Kornilov might grip them by the scruffs of their
necks and shake them in the air. But this wish was not only irreverent, it was unpolitical. The Bolsheviks stepped into
the harness, and were everywhere in the first line of the defense. The experience of Kornilov’s mutiny completed that
of the July days: once more Kerensky and Co. revealed the fact that they had no forces of their own to back them. The
army that rose against Kornilov was the army-to-be of the October revolution. We took advantage of the danger to arm
the workers whom Tzereteli had been disarming with such restless industry.

The capital quieted down in those days. Kornilov’s entry was awaited with hope by some and with terror by others.
Our boys heard some one say, “He may come to-morrow,” and in the morning, before they were dressed, they peered out of
the window to see if he had arrived. But Kornilov did not arrive. The revolutionary upswing of the masses was so
powerful that his mutiny simply melted away and evaporated. But not with out leaving its trace; the mutiny was all
grist to the Bolshevik mill.

“Retribution is not slow in coming,” I wrote in the Kornilov days. “Hounded, persecuted, slandered, our party never
grew as rapidly as it is growing now. And this process will spread from the capitals to the provinces, from the towns
to the country and the army . . . Without ceasing for a moment to be the class organization of the
proletariat, our party will be transformed in the fire of persecution into a true leader of all the oppressed,
downtrodden, deceived and hounded masses.”

We were hardly able to keep pace with the rising tide. The number of Bolsheviks in the Petrograd Soviet was
increasing daily. We represented almost half of the membership, and yet there was not a single Bolshevik in the
presidium. We raised the question of re-electing the Soviet presidium. We offered to form a coalition presidium with
the Mensheviks and the Populists. Lenin, as we afterward found out, was displeased at that, because he was afraid that
it implied conciliatory tendencies on our part. But no compromise was effected. Despite our recent joint struggle
against Kornilov, Tzereteli declined the coalition presidium.

We had hoped for this; nothing but a vote on the lists of candidates along party lines could solve the problem now.
I asked whether the list of our opponents included Kerensky; formally, he was a member of the presidium, though he did
not attend the Soviet, and showed his disregard of it in every way. The question took the presidium by surprise.
Kerensky was neither liked nor respected, but it was impossible to disavow one’s prime minister. After consulting one
another, the members of the presidium answered: “Of course, he is included.” We wanted nothing better. Here is an
extract from the minutes: “We were convinced that Kerensky was no longer in the presidium [tumultuous
applause], but we see now that we have been mistaken. The shadow of Kerensky is hovering between Chiedze and
Zavadye. When you are asked to approve the political line-up of the presidium, remember that you are asked in this way
to approve the policies of Kerensky. [tumultuous applause]” This threw over to our side another hundred or so
of the delegates who had been vacillating.

The Soviet numbered considerably more than a thousand members. The voting was performed by going out the door. There
was tremendous excitement, for the question at issue was not the presidium, but the revolution. I was walking about in
the lobbies with a group of friends. We reckoned that we should be a hundred votes short of half, and were ready to
consider that a success. But it happened that we received a hundred votes more than the coalition of the
Socialist-Revolutionists and the Mensheviks. We were the victors. I took the chair. Tzereteli, taking his leave,
expressed his wish that we might stay in the Soviet at least half as long as they had been leading the revolution. In
other words, our opponents opened for us a credit account of not more than three months.

They made a gross miscalculation. We were undeviating in our march to power.